Liquor and Smoke
by xTimshelx
Summary: Crowley kisses Dean against his will. Set after S9 Ep. 17, maybe before 18, not sure. "In the half light of the closed bar, he was all dark hair and hazel-green eyes; all shadows and angles with smudged points of light behind him through the windows. Dean wondered vaguely if the fuzziness was because of his fall, or his drunkenness, or if it had started to rain outside."


He had always wondered when something like this would happen. It was in everything he did, his confidence, the way he talked, the way he moved. That quiet prepossession, how calm and sure he seemed all the time; well, not _all_ the time. But even when at the mercy of others he always had the sense of having an exit strategy, or a plan of some sort. It was aggravating; you never had the sense of having the upper hand even when you did. Secretive- no, wrong word; mysterious. Always holding something back. Even as he smiled and chatted with him at the bar, talking about the search for the first blade, wheedling at him and feeding him drinks, his addiction, even as he flaunted his own.

"See, the thing about you and Sparkles is that neither of you will make the first move. Honestly, it's getting a bit aggravating; the demons who've been watching you two have been hedging bets on when you'll finally hook up." Dean snorted, and took another hit off his beer.

"Oh yeah?" He replied evenly, knowing that the demon was trying to wind him up. "And where do you toss in your mark?" He asked, turning to face him. To his surprise, not only was the demon already looking him in the eye, he wasn't grinning or doing that sarcastic twist of his lips he usually did. Instead, Crowley was, well, eyeing him, was the best way to put it. His mouth partly open, jaw grinding slightly to the side, eyes intent and considering. He inhaled sharply before he spoke.

"Well, like I said, neither of you will make the first move, but if I had to guess…" He took a pull from his whiskey, not breaking eye contact. "I'd say you would, Squirrel." Dean considered this.

"And why's that."

"'Cos Cas, in human form is definitely one for ladies, and when he's got his wings all angels are asexual so he'd be content with keeping things platonic until the end of days which is what _I_ think will happen, if one or both of you aren't dead before this whole heaven and Abaddon situation is tidied up." He rolled his tumbler in his fingers, eyes flicking to it for a brief moment before he drained it. "Of course, assuming that you both _do_ make it to the other side of this mess, then the illustrious Castiel will be busy, well, not _ruling_ heaven per se, _managing_ seems more like it once Metatron is deposed and the factions abolished, and won't pursue you. And for you to get over that ridiculous heterosexual image you have of yourself you'll need to be pursued." He paused, giving him that odd, intent look as he swiped his tongue quickly across his lips. "Or you'll make some idiotic romantic overture to him and then run away, prompting him to chase you like you want. _That's_ why I throw my lot into you making the first move." Dean drained the rest of his beer, and Crowley leaned over the bar top to get him another. It was then he realized he was alone in the bar with him. Where had the bartender gone? She had been there a little while ago, ushering out the last of the patrons and Crowley had smiled and talked to her, convincing her to let them lock up for her, how he'd be eternally grateful ect. ect. and she had. Somehow, she had agreed.

It was that solid self-assurance, he mused, that got people to trust him. That, and his understated voice, rough but cultivated in that way the suggested that while he was familiar to the finer things in life, he was also not oblivious to more base and universal pleasures. It was, well, seductive. _He_ was seductive; that was most of stock and trade, nearly the whole of it. The ability to seduce you to succumb to what you wanted no matter the price. His line of thought was interrupted as Crowley pushed the open beer toward him, and looked at him expectantly. Shit, what had they been talking about?

"Why are you so sure we'll be able to deal with Metatron?" The demon's reply was cut short as he opened his mouth by someone knocking on the glass outside.

"We're closed !" He half-shouted at the guy who continued to press his face against the door. Exasperated, he waved his hand in a small circle and two large men, demons, Dean wagered, dragged the man off out of sight. Crowley cut his protest off with a gesture with his empty glass as he readied to pour himself a new one. "Oh come now, do you really think I'd have someone killed just for rapping on a glass at the wrong pub?" He caught his expression and rolled his eyes. "Too much trouble to bother with the body, and anyway, we wouldn't want to upset your delicate sensibilities, now would we, my lad?" In turning, Dean had taken a little too long to focus on the source of the sound and his vision had blurred a little more than he had expected. He shook his head in an attempt to clear it, but it only made him more aware of how it swam. He looked at his newly opened bottle and wished his other one had been his last; he couldn't not finish it and let the demon know that he was tipsy.

"You didn't answer my question, Crowley." The dark man smiled a little, finished pouring himself a new drink, and took a sip.

"Well, Metatron may be having his fun now, but he'll get tired of you two sooner or later and try to kill you. And _that's_ what all these baddies don't get; the only time the big bad wolves get killed 'round here is when they actively try to get rid of you. When it comes down to you or them, you guys'll always end up on top, somehow. Dunno how, you two meat 'eads aren't as clever as most of my demons, and if you ask me, should have died a hundred times over by now, but, well, here you are." He raised his glass in a mock toast. Dean realized he was checking himself from lashing out at Crowley, and wondered why. Too close quarters with Sam had made them snap at each other a little too often so they decided to take the evening to cool off. He was supposed to have been blowing off steam; not sitting here taking cracks at his family from an uppity demon with a stupid accent.

"Oh yeah? Well if we're so incompetent then why have you thrown in with us to kill that demonic bitch?" Crowley sighed and his head tilted down a few inches in that way which meant that the Winchesters had disappointed him again by completely missing the point.

"Because," He drawled, "If you're trying to kill her, she's going to be trying to kill you back, and what did I say before about when critters try to kill you…?" Dean rolled his eyes and raised his beer to his lips. "Better to 'throw in' with you and Jolly Green than not, at this point, eh? Abaddon hasn't learned what I have, and honestly, why would she? You two look about as effective as the Mystery Gang with your track record so far as she's been here, so I don't blame her an inch." He did that sarcastic smirk and turn of the head as he raised his glass to drink that made Dean's blood boil and he decided he had enough.

"Look, I don't have to sit here and listen to this, Crowley. We're going to kill Abaddon as soon as we find her and get the First Blade from you and that's all-" He had been moving to stand as he said this, but his foot had caught on the stool or the bar or something as he did and wasn't able to regain his balance before he sent the stool and beer clattering to the floor. And Dean should have joined them, if there hadn't been something solid supporting him from behind and the arm of his jacket. As his alcohol addled brain was trying to register what had happened he finally managed to focus on what was right in front of him. Crowley. Crowley had caught him. He was leaning his whole weight upon the arm awkwardly under his back, hand pressed against his shoulder blade, the other gripping the left arm of his jacket, but for all his weight and height he could have been leaning on stone. _Demon strength_, he realized through his haze, _and teleportation_. Crowley was quite a powerful demon, he knew, but it was easy to forget his strength and power since he mostly let others do the work for him. But he was quite possibly the strongest demon in Hell aside from a Knight and Dean was starting wonder if Crowley purposely let them forget that by being cunning rather than brutal and running away rather than standing and fighting when he realized that some time had passed in this weird embrace.

"Tha-" Was all he was able to get out in a confusion of his mind before the little distance between them was closed as Crowley kissed him. He felt rough stubble on his cheek and lips and because his mouth had been slightly open from trying to thank him, he tasted the expensive whiskey the demon had been drinking. There was something else, the smell of him and the taste of _him_, yes, but beneath it all was a kind of acrid smoky flavor; bitter and ash-like. Similar to pork burned to a crisp but different, somehow-

Dean gained enough composure to realize the hand at his back had snaked up to the back of his head and the hand at his arm was now moving to his middle back, attempting to pin his only free arm as Crowley started to pry his mouth further open with what he realized with horror was a tongue. Dean started to push against him with the hand he realized had been gripping the demon's jacket and tried to pull his head back. It was like trying to bend tempered steel. His hands slipped against the expensive fabric covering the immovable body and when he felt Crowley pressing closer despite his attempts move away he started to kick. The demon's tongue had swept around his mouth, hand tangled tight in his hair, tasting him, it seemed, before Crowley paused. Without losing contact, he pulled his tongue from Dean's mouth, brushing his lips across his and giving a little sigh. Being so close, Dean felt the damp, smoky heat of it before Crowley inhaled sharply, smelling him.

Then Dean was falling, his flailing struggling landed him on his side on the hardwood of the bar floor, shoulder in a puddle of spilt beer. He grunted, then turned quickly on his back to face Crowley, wondering what he was going to do. He hadn't realized that something low in his gut had twisted tight until it twisted tighter when he wondered if the demon was going to…continue.

But Crowley was crouched by his feet, looking at him thoughtfully as he touched his slightly parted lips. In the half light of the closed bar, he was all dark hair and hazel-green eyes; all shadows and angles with smudged points of light behind him through the windows. Dean wondered vaguely if the fuzziness was because of his fall, or his drunkenness, or if it had started to rain outside.

"The _fuck_, man..." Was all he could say as he stared at the demon's half silhouette.

"Well, Cas may be content to wait for you to move first, but _I'm_ not." His teeth shone white in the dusky bar as he smiled for a second.

"What the _hell_ are you talking about?" Dean felt the first throb of pain from his shoulder, and his scalp tingled from where Crowley had gripped it. "What the _fuck_ was-"

"You've had an angel on your shoulder for so long, Dean, maybe it's time you had a demon on the other one to balance it out, eh?" He smiled, a smirk this time, and gestured to the situation in general. "Look at you, he's made you soft."

"What did you, _drug_ me you bastard?" Dean said, trying to sit up more, get off his elbows at least, but his head swam more than he thought it would.

"Hah!" Crowley's short laugh, more of a bark, really, made Dean look at him sharply. His smile then was more genuine, if a little patronizing. "Like I said, no one is worse to you than you, Dean. You walked in here a little more than half sloshed already. Then you started down on three shots of that awful tequila before I saved you from yourself and moved you off to quite a nice proper English brew. Honestly, if I hadn't been here you would have ended up even drunker than you are now, with some girl named Starla or suchlike." Dean swallowed as he continued. "And I couldn't let some harlot sink her talons into you and use your body like that now could I?" He said reaching out and patting his calf, Dean suppressing a flinch as Crowley flashed his teeth again. His head wasn't right; _he_ wasn't right, right now. Why was he acting like this? He should be shouting, swearing, punching, stabbing, _leaving_; something other than sitting here in the dark listening to the poison of this- this- _serpent_.

He shifted to get up, but his hand slipped in the beer and knocked against his fallen bottle, more liquid sloshing out with a quiet little _glug_. Crowley sighed.

"Alright, enough of this, let's get you home, Squirrel." Crowley reached out a hand to help him up and Dean caught a glimpse of a near-empty bag of blood in his inner coat pocket. _Oh_, he realized, _this is just because he's strung-out on human blood_, he rationalized. _Sure_, said a sharp voice inside him, _and you're only acting like this because you're __**drunk**_.

The thought stung, even as he reached out and let Crowley help him up, stumbling backward away from him as soon as he felt he had his feet. The demon snorted at this; Dean had felt the heated knot in his gut give a twist at the contact. As they left the bar, he heard the door click as it locked and saw the lights go out as they approached the Impala. He wouldn't have been surprised to learn the beer had been cleaned up as well. He gave the demon an appraising look. Crowley raised his eyebrows at him.

"I keep my deals, Dean, no matter what they are or who they're with. Now," He snapped his fingers and the car door unlocked before Dean could reach for his keys. They both reached for the handle and Dean shied away from the near-contact. "You're in no condition to drive, my lad." He said; hand on the car door handle. "Now _that_ would be _irresponsible_ of me."

Rebellion flared in Dean, and he shouldered Crowley out of the way, opening the Impala's driver's side door and climbing in and said, "Oh, there's no _way_ you're driving my baby, Crowley." As he slammed the door shut. He fumbled with the keys still in his pocket, and as he put them in the ignition, he saw Crowley's hand on his window, the other waving as he smirked.

And the next moment he was sitting in his car just down the road from the bunker looking out into the woods on the side of the road. He struck the steering wheel and swore as he started the engine. He brooded as he drove the short distance back to Sam, the tightness in his abdomen smoldering away, and increasing in intensity as he was unable to not think of smokey, heady aftertaste in his mouth.


End file.
